The Shattered Dark sr-2

by Sandy Williams

  It takes twenty more minutes to reach a small, wooded cove on the lakeshore. Trev dips his hand into the water without a word. After the fissure rumbles open, he reaches into the draw-stringed pouch tied to his belt and takes out an anchor-stone. Chaos lusters flicker over his hand when he imprints it. He hands it to me, then holds out his arm.

  It’s awkward, touching a fae who hates you, but I wrap my fingers around his forearm and brace myself for the In-Between. Cold, harsh air clenches around me, squeezing for what feels like an eternity, before it spits us back out. My body is stiff and sore and pissed at me for traveling so soon after Lorn’s hellish fissure. My vision turns white, the world tilts, and I have to hang on to Trev in order to stay on my feet.

  I’m still freezing. I don’t realize why until I let go of Trev’s arm and force my eyes to focus. I expect to be in the Realm; I don’t expect to be in a city that is not Corrist. It’s night here, but the streets are white with snow except for the circles of blue beneath the magically lit street orbs. Long, thin icicles cling to the eaves of the row houses lining the street. They’re single-storied, but there’s quite a distance between their front doors, which means they’re big. We’re in an upscale part of this city, and something about the architecture—the curved rooftops and pale blue stucco of the walls—is familiar. I think I’ve been here before.

  An uncomfortable, nervous feeling pools in my gut.

  “Where are we?” I take a step away from Trev and lock my gaze on the shadows from our extinguished fissure. I dropped Naito’s sketchbook when we stepped out of the In-Between. I bend down to retrieve it from the snow-covered ground, my heartbeat picking up its pace because I don’t know if I can trust Trev.

  “We’re in Rhigh,” he says.

  The sketchbook slips from my fingers. A gust of wind flips it open before I recover. I slap it shut, dust off the snow that sticks like powder to its cover. This place is familiar because I have been here before. With Thrain.

  I hug the sketchbook to my chest as if it can keep me warm. It was cold ten years ago, too, but I was wearing long sleeves and a jacket when Thrain abducted me, not a thin, short-sleeved T-shirt. After three days in this weather, though, the extra layer of clothing didn’t matter. Thrain didn’t warm the air in the house he imprisoned me in. I would have frozen to death if Kyol hadn’t found me.

  Trev starts walking down the street, toward a multistoried, ornate building. The high noble’s home, maybe? Rhigh’s gate is in the other direction.

  “Trev,” I call out. Either he doesn’t notice my reaction to this place, or he doesn’t care. It’s probably the latter. He hasn’t asked why I was in Nashville or who took me there.

  I hate being on this street with him—there’s no telling who might be watching from a window—so I grab his arm and pull him into a narrow walkway. If he didn’t want to move, he wouldn’t, but he doesn’t shake free until after we’re off the main street.

  “Why aren’t we in Corrist?” I demand.

  “Lena wants you here,” he returns. That’s it. No elaboration.

  If this wasn’t Rhigh, and if I didn’t need a fae to fissure out of here, I’d turn on my heel and leave. With the exception of Kyol and a few others, this was how the Court fae treated me. They were usually more considerate than Trev—they never would have brought me here without a cloak—but they were mum when it came to explanations. When I was a teen, I didn’t have the confidence to demand more information from them, then it became a bad habit, doing what they said without knowing the reason why. I’m not putting up with that from the rebels.

  “Why does she want me here, Trev?”

  “Because I asked for a shadow-reader.” Aren’s voice comes from my left. A tingle runs through me when I see him. He wasn’t on the main street before, but he must have seen Trev and me slip between these buildings. And he must have been outside somewhere because the wind has made his hair even more disheveled than usual. He doesn’t look like a bum or an unkempt tor’um, though. He looks good. I don’t know how he pulls that off. Maybe it’s the armor hugging his torso and his arms and legs, or maybe it’s the way his silver eyes drink me in. Whatever it is, it makes him undeniably attractive.

  His gaze drops suddenly, following the path of a chaos luster down my neck, I presume, then he frowns down at the rip in my jeans. My knee is scratched up and sore from stumbling into the parking lot in Nashville, but it hurts less than the bruise on my thigh that I got when Shane hit me with a car. Neither is serious enough to need healing. Aren must realize that, but he closes the distance between us as if I’m two seconds away from dying.

  “Sidhe, Trev. She can’t keep warm,” he says, placing his hands on my shoulders.

  His warm hands. I step closer, breathe in his cedar and cinnamon scent, then shiver when his touch sparks through me. I’m sure he feels the lightning, too, but he’s still glaring at Trev.

  “Are you trying to make her sick?”

  “I forgot—”

  “That she’s human?” Aren cuts him off.

  Trev opens his mouth to say something else, but swallows his words when he focuses behind me and Aren.

  “Lord Hison,” Trev says instead, with a shallow dip of his head.

  Lord Hison, elder of Dice and high noble of Jutur Province, stands only a few feet away. His midnight blue cloak is embroidered with gold leaves. It looks warm and heavy, a sharp contrast to his silver eyes, which are cold and so light they almost look white. That’s the snow reflected in them, I think.

  Aren’s tense. He moves back slightly, and I see the battle he’s fighting with himself. He doesn’t want to keep his distance from me, but like Lord Kaeth, we need Hison to vote Lena to the throne. I’ve met the high noble a few times before. He barely tolerates the presence of humans in the Realm. He definitely wouldn’t approve of Aren’s relationship with me.

  I make the decision for Aren, taking a long step back. A brief wince appears on his face before the stiffness leaves his posture, and he turns.

  “Lord Hison,” he says. “I didn’t expect you to follow.”

  Hison is focused on me. Normally, I’d avert my gaze. I don’t this time. I’m in his world trying to end the war that has spilled so much blood these last few years. I’m helping him and his people. He’s going to have to accept that I’m here.

  “Be careful with that,” Hison says, his gaze still on me. “Rumor is she seduced Taltrayn. She may try to do the same to you. Atroth should have discarded her years ago.”

  The only reason I don’t react is because he doesn’t know I understand Fae, and I want to keep it that way.

  “She is bewitching, isn’t she,” Aren says smoothly. “I’d caution you against touching her.” His tone is light, but there’s an edge to it, too.

  Hison stiffens.

  “The nalkin-shom needs to be inside,” Aren continues, before the high noble decides to take offense at his words. “Humans are susceptible to the elements.”

  Fae are susceptible to some extent, too—they can’t use their magic to keep warm indefinitely—but I don’t complain. I’m twice as cold as I was before Aren touched me.

  “Send your man for a cloak,” Hison says. “She’ll survive until he returns. We’ll continue on.”

  Aren’s eyes narrow just perceptibly, but Hison is already moving.

  “I’ll return quickly,” Trev mutters. Then he opens a fissure and disappears.

  I’m so cold, I’m numb to the pull of his shadows. I’m not numb, however, to Aren’s next words.

  “Lena shouldn’t have sent you.”

  All the warm, fuzzy feelings I had when I first saw him vanish. “It’s good to see you again, too.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Was I not clear that I want you to come along?” Hison asks, peering back down the walkway.

  Aren draws in a breath. I start walking before he lets it out, partly because I’m hoping moving will warm me up and partly because I’m just a tad bit hurt. I’ve been worried about h
im. Has he been too busy to worry about me?

  He’s fighting a war, I remind myself. He has more important things on his mind.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, falling into step beside me. His gaze dips to my bare arms.

  “I’m fine,” I say. I intend my response to be short, but it comes out harsher than I wanted. It’s the weather’s fault. My face is going numb. I am going to get sick if Trev doesn’t return soon. I’m sure he’s staying in this world; he shouldn’t have to wait too long before he fissures back.

  “You know I didn’t mean it that way,” Aren says, keeping his voice so low I wonder if Hison understands English. Two fae are with the high noble. Only the woman is a guard, I think. She’s on Hison’s right, trailing slightly behind him. The fae on Hison’s other side wears a name-cord in his hair. He’s carrying a sword, too—all fae carry them—but he doesn’t seem as ready to use it as the woman does.

  “I’ve missed you. I’ve been wanting to see you, too, just not like…” He stops, clenches his jaw, then continues. “Not here. Not like this.”

  He almost sounds pained. I scan him, searching for injuries. He looks okay, but he looks different. He’s not the same Aren who held me captive. That Aren was cavalier and sly, always ready with one of his infuriating half grins. This Aren is tense. Stressed-out. I want to help him, but I don’t know how.

  Not for the first time, I’m struck by just how little I know him. I was his prisoner for two weeks. I’ve been his ally for two and a half.

  His ally. Is that all our relationship is? It feels like it sometimes, but I want to be so much more than that.

  “This province has been unstable since we took the palace,” Aren says, keeping his gaze straight ahead. “Hison issued a curfew to try to keep things under control.”

  A curfew. That explains why the streets are empty.

  “It’s not working,” he continues. “The gate isn’t being monitored. Merchants are fighting over who gets to use it first, and while their backs are turned, fae are stealing their goods. They’re breaking into their stores, too. Hison should be able to take care of it, but the gate guards were paid by Atroth. Even if they’re willing to work for Lena, we don’t have the tinril to pay them. The high nobles won’t send the gate taxes to us because they haven’t voted Lena to the throne.”

  I frown. I think I do, at least. My face is so numb I can’t tell for sure. “Sethan was against taxing the gates.”

  Aren looks at me. “No.” His gaze drops to my bare arms again. He seems agitated. “We wanted fair tolls. Atroth’s were designed to keep him in power. He let merchants from the provinces he dissolved fissure for free so they wouldn’t protest. The gates need to be taxed, but we don’t have enough fae to spare to monitor them and…And I can’t watch you freeze like this.”

  His arms are around me before I process his last sentence. I look at Hison. He’s still walking, but he could turn around any second.

  “Screw him,” Aren says.

  I’m too cold to step away. Instead, I meet Aren’s eyes. “Did you pick that phrase up from Naito?”

  The corner of his mouth tilts up. “From you, actually.”

  The nervous feeling in my stomach disappears. It’s replaced with a warm, tingling sensation.

  His smile widens. “I really have missed you, nalkin-shom.”

  That smile disappears when he takes my hands in his. “Sidhe, your fingers are ice.”

  “Yeah.” I look back the way we came. We’re still in line of sight of where Trev and I fissured in. I’m assuming that’s where he’ll reappear, but there’s still no sign of him. How long does it take to get a freaking cloak?

  I turn back to Aren. Past his shoulder, I see Hison staring at us.

  “We need to keep walking,” I say.

  Aren scowls, but we turn and follow the high noble. Aren doesn’t stop touching me. He runs his hands up and down my arms, then alternates cupping first my right, then my left hand between his. The contact helps. The lightning distracts me—he distracts me—and somehow, I’m as hot as I am cold. My body isn’t numb anymore. I’m all too aware of just how much I want him.

  “You didn’t say what we’re doing here.”

  Aren’s thumb massages my palm. “Hison captured a fae who’s been encouraging the disorder. He’s outspoken against Lena, the corruption of the palace, the war. We think he’s close to the remnants’ leadership. We’re going to let him escape. We need to know where he goes.”

  Hison leaves the street, taking a narrow path between two tall stucco buildings. The shadow-reading should be simple. This is the type of assignment I was given almost all the time when I worked for the Court. It’s safe. The target never even knows I’m there unless something goes wrong.

  Like something went wrong back in Spier.

  “You trust Hison?” I ask.

  “Not at all,” he replies. Then, “Here’s Trev.”

  Trev must have either known where we’re going or seen us turn down this path. He jogs toward us, carrying a white cloak. Maybe that’s what took him so long. Most of the fae’s cloaks are dark colors—deep blues and various shades of gray and black. This one will help me blend in with the snow.

  Aren takes it from him. He runs his hands over it twice before he opens its folds and places it around my shoulders.

  I very nearly moan. It’s like being tucked inside a blanket taken directly from the dryer.

  “God, I love you…you’re magic.” Shit. That was a bad stumble. Humans throw those words around so casually, but I don’t know if he knows that, and I’m not ready to tell him I love him, not while we’re fighting a war and not while our relationship is so new and unstable.

  He pulls my hood over my head. Keeping a grip on the front edges, he pulls me close.

  “Careful, nalkin-shom,” he whispers conspiratorially. “I might think you’re starting to like me.”

  I’m grateful he’s making light of my slip. My shoulders are defrosted enough that I manage a shrug. “I might not hate you quite as much as I used to.”

  He smiles, then lets go of my hood to run his hands over the cloak again. A new wave of warmth envelops me. Seriously, fae magic is pretty awesome sometimes. I could melt inside this cloak. It’s heavy enough to block the wind and it has huge, wide pockets on the inside that I can slip my arms into.

  Aren’s palm glides down my back…and stops just above my waistband. That’s where the dagger he gave me should be. It seems like forever has passed since I left the Vegas suite, but that’s where the dagger is, uselessly parked on my dresser. Unless the maid called the authorities.

  “It’s Sosch’s fault,” I mutter.

  Aren lifts an eyebrow as if to say, “Really?” There’s an entertained glint in his silver eyes that makes my stomach flip again.

  He unhooks a short scabbard from his belt. “Lena’s not going to be happy when she learns you’re depleting the armory.”

  He lifts the back of my shirt to slide it—

  “Cold!” I squeak as soon as the scabbard touches my skin.

  “Oops,” he says, sliding it into my waistband, but he’s grinning. He sobers a second later, though. Softly, he asks, “You’re okay?”

  I pull the cloak more tightly around me. “Yeah, this is warm enough. Thanks.”

  “No. Are you okay with being here? In Rhigh?”

  I’m not sure what he’s asking. He knows Thrain was the false-blood who pulled me into the Realm. Does he know Thrain held me here? I don’t see how he could. This was only one of Thrain’s bases, and I don’t think Atroth or any of his fae went around telling others this is where they stumbled across me.

  Trev—I almost forgot he was here—clears his throat, then mutters the warning, “Hison.”

  “Is there a problem?” Hison has doubled back and is standing only a few paces away.

  Aren focuses on the high noble and says, “Lena expects her humans to be taken care of. McKenzie’s well-being is my priority. I want her out of the elements.”r />
  “It’s not much farther,” Hison practically spits. It was so much easier to work for the fae when I didn’t realize just how much some of them hated me.

  It takes less than a minute to reach our destination, a small, detached home near the city’s marketplace. I can’t see it from here, but that marketplace is on the river. That’s where the gate is, too. Kyol fissured me through it when he stole me away from Thrain.

  I’m uncomfortable being back here, but I don’t let it show. I follow Hison and Aren through the door and into the living area. The room is dark, lit only by the moonlight coming in from a window, but I can still make out the blue silk shimmering overhead. It’s a common fae custom to pin thin drapes to the ceiling. They’re soft and light, moving like waves when we walk beneath them. They’re supposed to be relaxing, but I still feel tense, which is stupid. Thrain is dead. Dead, dead, dead.

  Unless Naito is right and banek’tan do exist.

  I don’t know why I let that thought creep into my mind. I’m 99.9 percent certain no one can bring fae back from the dead.

  “Is this close enough?” Hison asks. He’s standing in front of a window.

  “It’s close enough,” Aren answers. He motions me forward. “The fae will come out of that door.”

  That door is barely ten feet away. It’s just across the narrow street and nearly hidden behind the snow-covered branches of a leafless bush, but it won’t be a problem to draw the fae’s shadows; the problem will be to do it without the fae seeing me.

  “This is fine,” I say, taking the pen out of the spine of the sketchbook tucked under my robe. Now that we’re out of the weather, I’m much warmer. I don’t take my hood off, though. If a chaos luster flashes across my face when the fae steps onto the street, he might figure out this is a setup.

  Hison orders his assistant, the one with the name-cord, to go. From what I understand, he’s to check on the fae prisoner, then “accidentally” leave a door unlocked.